


Masterwork

by RebeccaOTool



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Pocket Sherlock, Pocketlock, Torture, shrunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:06:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebeccaOTool/pseuds/RebeccaOTool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty's magnum opus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masterwork

Sherlock’s eyes were frozen open. Light poured in. He wanted to cry out from the pain, but his locked lips couldn’t emit anything but a whimper.

In some deeply detached part of his brain he recognized the trademarks of hallucination. It HAD to be a hallucination. His senses were overloaded, but he hadn’t _lost_ them.

That doesn’t help much with the terror. Or the pain.

If he could just close his eyes for a moment—but no, the paralytic is still holding him. He’ll go blind soon if he can’t get away from this light.

He gazes unblinking into the distorted face before him. Several toxins could achieve this, paralyzing him and distorting his vision. They scroll through his brain, all complex, all rare. He can’t rid himself of any under his own power.

Something slips under him like a massive hand, and a childish cry rises to his dead lips. _No, I don’t like this I don’t **like** it— _

He clamps down, steeling himself. Panic will get him nowhere.

Moriarty’s face wavers in front of his dry eyes, smeary, huge, monstrously huge. Whatever he’s done has made Sherlock’s sense betray him: Moriarty looks like he’s fifty feet tall. He says something, but his voice is booming, distorted. Sherlock’s eyelids twitch, but he still can’t close them.

His is lifted into the air (a winch, it has to be a winch), and he can’t move, and Moriarty begins to cackle. His head lolls to one side, and he catches a glimpse of the room. He can’t make much out, but he can see large windows. Sunlight pours in. How long has he been here?

John. John has to be out there, somewhere, looking for him. Unless he was dead somewhere, bullet through the head, face down in a gutter—

Moriarty shakes him (the winch the WINCH shakes him, it’s not real, damnit) and his mind flies back to the matter at hand. Moriarty has him, and he’s helpless.

He is going to die. The question is how long Moriarty will drag it out.

0o0o0

John races up the stairs, Lestrade behind him, one hand clutching his gun. Moriarty was here, he had to be here, and when he found the consulting criminal, he’ll find Sherlock.

The door bursts open in front of him. He’s scarcely aware that he kicked it. And there, like in his dreams, is Moriarty, mouth in a brief O of surprise. He starts to speak, and raises one hand—

Lestrade shoots a millisecond after John. Both bullets find their mark, square in Moriarty’s chest. He falls to the ground, and John’s heart slows a beat. Sherlock isn’t here, and they’ve just killed the man that knows where he is. It wasn’t even a gun in his hand, it was…it was…

His heart abruptly speeds back up as he drops to his hand and knees.

0o0o0

Sherlock is still reeling from the fall, but he can identify the gunshots well enough. They sounded like cannons in his ears. He’s not sure what happened: his sight is badly bluffed now. 

Something leans over him as the fingers (winch, oh he wants to believe that still) loosen. His body trembles minutely and he cannot stop.

He wants to cry out when John’s face blooms above him. It’s pale and haggard, but it is John.

Something light touches him, lifts him much more gently, but John’s horrified face remains a constant. He is saying something, but his voice is like thunder, and Sherlock cannot read his lips. 

After an eternity his sight dims. This is it. My eyes are going. 

But no. It’s just a very slow blink. He whimpers in relief, unable to hide behind his mask of calm.

0o0o0

Toxins, he is sure. They are already wearing off, slowly. Whatever Moriarty’s done, that will pass. John is sure.

He hefts the tiny figure gently, gently. “Lestrade. Have you got a knife?”

Lestrade, speechless, nods and fumbles in his pocket. He finds a small utility knife and passes it to John’s free hand. “T-this is impossible.”

"Yeah, a bit." John sets about cutting the small ropes around Sherlock’s wrists. He’s attached to a small cross—a marionette controller, there’s probably a trade name for it, but John is out of damns to give. 

Sherlock lays unmoving in his hand, stretched across his palm in a daze. His face has been painted to resemble a doll, the makeup smeary with sweat. His clothes were replicas of his usual attire however: Moriarty must have liked the look of the detective's billowing coat.

"I don’t know how Moriarty did this." He keeps his voice low and steady. He didn’t want to alarm Sherlock any more than he already was. John could feel his heart hammering. "But it’s real, Greg. He’s alive."

Lestrade closes his eyes for a moment, searching for sanity. “I know. Can we do anything to help him?”

John clips the last of the strings and lets the whole thing clatter to the floor. “Get us the hell out of here.”

"That I can do.

0o0o0

Sherlock lets his eyes stay closed as John does whatever he’s doing. For once, he neither needs nor wants to know what’s going on. John is there. He’s safe. And he’ll remain that way.

John will make sure of that.


End file.
